


The Trials of Sly Fox

by RafeAdler



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Coming of Age, Gen, Multi, Navarro's origin story, Origin Story, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Physical Abuse, Prequel, Violence, as things happen tags will come, before the main story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9442922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RafeAdler/pseuds/RafeAdler
Summary: Atoq: Quechua meaning "Sly as a Fox"This is the story of the man who dreamed of gold, drowning in the depths of the sea with his curse. This is the man who was once a boy living in poverty in Lima, Peru, growing up under the wing of a dangerous man, and becoming a man who longed for fortune and glory. From the restless child, to the angry teenager, to the disciplined man, there are tests and trials and back-breaking experiences that Atoq Navarro must face in order to become the man who can face down Nathan Drake with a curse surrounding them both, with revenge and anger and rage in his eyes, and see the rift.Nathan Drake, the Hero Rising.Atoq Navarro, the Hero Falling.These are the trials of this sly fox. This is how he fell.





	1. The Peruvian Boy

**Author's Note:**

> There are 3 dominant languages that will be used in this story. Unfortunately, I only know English, but I have developed a way to make things work. In the dialogue, there will be three different forms, feel free to look back at this key:
> 
> English - plain text  
> Quechua - Bolded text  
> Spanish - Italicized text

The boy always awoke long before the sun rose in the sky to the sound of people outside moving about and talking. The air was musty, dust dancing in the air like sparkles from a hidden fairy that traversed his home as he slept. In the house, just downstairs, everything had come to life. His siblings were getting up and dressed, and his mother was making breakfast. Long before the screeching of the birds, the howling of the dogs, and the sound of cars and bikes alive outside arose, the little family in San Juan de Lurigancho was awake and exploring the morning.

                The sky was a dull gray outside, but hints of pink began to touch the foggy clouds. Men smoked on their doorsteps, getting ready to head out to underpaying jobs that overworked them and hurt their health. The boy remembered his father coming home and telling his mother about how one of his coworkers had broken an arm at work, and he was sent home without pay. They had talked about setting aside a few Sols for the man, but they never got around to doing it. They were barely getting enough as it was.

                The boy stretched out his arms and got to his feet, putting on clothes that were still hanging out by the window to dry (mother was always angry with him when he neglected to fold up his clothes and put them in the old weathered luggage crate they called his dresser. Getting on his sandals, which were right by the small pillow he rest his head on in the corner of the room, he descended the stairs. The smell of the food being prepared was not very exciting. The boy looked on to see his older brothers and his younger sister eating Quakers again, a bowl sitting on a little stool, ready for him to eat. He sat down before the stool, using it to rest his elbows on, and began to eat.

                His mother was cleaning up at a tiny basin, and she turned to look at him. Her eyes were suspicious, and there was a hint of a smile on her face. “ **Little fox, what are you doing up so late**?” she asked. “ **You’re usually one of our first risers**.”

The boy hid behind his bowl, bashful that his mother caught him. “ **I was admiring the sky** ,” he said. “ **It’s going to look even better when the sun rises, mama**.” He continued to eat, not looking at any of his siblings, who looked down at him with some annoyance. They all had a duty to the family, and if one of them didn’t do their part, it would cause a significant loss of income. The eldest brothers always trekked far across Lima to get money. The boy’s little sister went to help their mother with the clothes at some of the richer districts. The boy and some of his other siblings would walk an hour or two to get to tourist districts. One brother put on shows and got tips, another had a job. The boy had found ways that weren’t always allowed to bring Sols back home. He would walk through the narrow alley streets to get to the bright, lush district Barranco. It was a place of strange wonder, unlike many of the other districts that the boy was able to travel to. So many pale-skinned people wandered the streets, looking at different buildings and landmarks that the boy found trivial. Barranco was right against the ocean, and many people would go to the beaches to relax and swim. That was one of the first times the boy had ever seen a white man blister and turn nearly the color of a bright pink pitahaya. One of the benefits of this place, is with so many tourists, money was easy to come by, legally or not.

The boy finished his Quakers, helping his mother to clean the bowls and spoons as his brothers got ready to head out. “ **Now remember** ,” mother said. “ **Have fun, and make sure you’re at least trying your best. Papa won’t be angry if he knows you were trying**.” The boy put the bowls into the little wooden cupboard in the corner. Their father wasn’t always the kindest man. He was a good man, and the children loved him very much, but they all knew he had issues with his temper. Modern medicine could fix it, but the little family couldn’t afford it.

                The children were all ready to leave, standing in a line before their mother, who checked them each to make sure they looked presentable, each one with a little backpack on to carry their earnings for the day. The boy had combed his dark hair back nice, but his mother gave it a playful tousle. “ **Don’t look so serious, little fox** ,” his mother said with a smile. “ **They won’t like an unhappy boy. Give yourself a nice look, one that draws in the mothers**.”

“ **Yes, mama** ,” the boy answered. It was a normal, gut response.

When the mother was satisfied, she gestured for all of them to shoo. One by one, they began to file out. “ **Have a good day! Come back safe**!” she called. “ **And remember, Spanish only**!”

The boy stepped out onto the street, where now women and their daughters marched about. His own mother was getting ready to bring the laundry she cleaned back to the people who hired her for cleaning, and would spend most of her day in their walls. The boy trotted down the road, rounding around the corner at the end of the street to expose himself to a large street. The intersection was always full of cars and motorbikes waiting for their turn. Sometimes the boy wondered if all the lights were red and everyone was waiting. Standing on the little corner, waiting for his sign to walk, the boy eyed a motorbike not far from him. It was dark, glinting in the now pink and yellowing sky, and he saw his reflection in it.

The bike sped away then, and the boy felt resolved to get one of his own one day.

                The boy spent an hour and a half getting to Barranco. He had immediately crossed the streets to get to the beach, where he watched the white tourists play and sleep and swim. He understood most of what they spoke – when he wasn’t getting money, the boy often relaxed under the window of a nice school in Barranco in the bushes below the sill. It was a class where they learned all kinds of English. Sometimes, the boy was easily able to understand their words. Other times it was confusing and complicated, and the boy went home puzzled by what the word meant. His father had an old translation dictionary for Spanish to English, but sometimes it was so old that the word he was looking for wasn’t in there. The boy eyed the tourists in confusion. He didn’t understand how they thought the ocean was a pleasant place to put their bodies in – it was salty and cold. And the beaches were all rock and hard and painful to stand on – so why were they laying on it?

                The boy stood on the sidewalks of Playa Los Pavos for a little while, watching the people, before turning and heading a few streets into town. There, he began to wander near hotels, watching white tourists go in and out. Some of them were packing up to leave, and some, to his joy, were just arriving. He began to target his prey at the Hostal Gemina, which was on Almte Miguel Grau. There, he saw an older couple taking out their bags from the back of a little cab, and he walked up.

                “Excuse!” the boy said. The couple jumped, turning to look at him, and once they saw it was a harmless child they both smiled. “I am in need for money. May I have coin? In return I will help carry bags!”

                The boy hid his smile as he saw the couple instantly melt to his request. The poor beggar boy routine was perfect, and they gave him some of their luggage and a little key. And even though the boy was fairly decent with English, he had been sure to sound slow and careful, so that the couple would think his knowledge was limited. They spoke to him affectionately and slowly about where to go, and he nodded, and began to carry the bags into the Hostal.

                Taking the aged, narrow stairs not far from the lobby, the boy struggled up to the first floor before setting down the bag to catch a breather. It was a large suitcase, and it was fairly heavy for a young boy of his age. He leaned on the suitcase, and felt somewhat embarrassed when the little couple passed him on the steps. He gave them a little smile to let them know it was okay, and they simply smiled back, continuing up the steps past him. Though it was embarrassing to be caught in a weak state, it was good for his goal. The boy waited until he could no longer see or hear the couple, and then he dove into the suitcase, fingers digging through cloth and toiletries for anything that could be of value. He pulled out a bracelet, but frowned when he looked at it up close. The shiny jewels on it weren’t genuine, and he pushed it back into the folds of the suitcase. The next item he pulled out was a lovely pearl ring. He smiled and hid it in his pocket. Then he got a beautiful necklace with clear crystals dangling from the neck. Upon close inspection, he knew they were likely real, and confiscated it as well.

                Zipping up the luggage, the boy brought it the rest of the way up the stairs and to the couple’s room. They thanked him, and in turn gave him ten Sol. The boy wrinkled his nose after they closed the door, and trudged down the steps. For Americans, ten Sol was worth only three American dollars. “ _American jerks, thinking they know everything there is to know about money_ ,” the boy grumbled. He would speak his home language, which was that of his mother, Quechua, but the rule from his mother was clear. Only Spanish outside their walls, unless they were at a Quechua festival. Once he was outside, the boy began to walk down the street, heading north to his next destination. On the same road just a few blocks away was the Casa Falleri Boutique. The boy sat on the curb on the opposite side of the road, watching the place for a little while, pretending to play little games with the cards he usually had with him in his back pocket, but to his dismay, people were only leaving. He couldn’t find a single car of someone arriving to bring in their luggage, and after an hour of waiting, the boy decided he would go for his big prize a little early.

                The big prize was the Hotel B. Just one more block down the road and past the left corner stood the most expensive hotel in the district. The boy wondered if it was the most expensive hotel in all of Lima. Maybe even all of Peru. Whenever he approached it, he looked up at its beautiful walls with amazement and wonder. The pal, lovely walls and spirals that reminded the boy of those old western movies that his father liked to watch from America. It was the kind of place the rich mayor would live, and the inside was even more beautiful. It was a place that the boy would often infiltrate to get the money and loot that he wanted.

                He spent many hours that day with the bustling people of hotel B. It was a struggle to get through, as many people there by now knew his face. It was not a concern of getting caught stealing, but rather that he was trying to do employee jobs. The hotel had one or two men who could bring tourists’ luggage to their rooms, but the boy would try to sneak around and help people up for some Sols. Some of the people who caught him didn’t react to him – either they didn’t care about the brat carrying bags or they understood his situation and kept out of his way. The managers, bell boys, and a few receptionists had attempted to grab him by the arm and drag him out to the street, however. They would not have some dirty street ruffian ruining their fine establishment.

                Once when the boy was carrying some luggage to one of the nice balcony rooms, he overheard two cleaners speaking. “ _The boy is here almost every day_ ,” whispered one. “ _Does he ever go to school_?” “ _I don’t think so_ ,” the other replied. “ _What kind of mother does he have? My Julio would never miss his education like this._ ”

                The boy thought bitterly about how he couldn’t afford his education, clutched the bag close to his chest, and continued to bring it to the tourist’s room.

                That day, the boy sat on a bench, watching cars come and go from the Hotel B, waiting for one that could be his prize. Only the richest of the rich were at this hotel, but some were clearly richer than others. A woman with a little ratty dog got out of a cab with a few bags dragging along behind her, and the cab driver helped her get them onto the curb. The boy was about ready to get up, when a passing vehicle caught his eye. He paused, watching it roll into a parking spot, and a man stepped out.

                The man had a stern face, and was dressed unlike any tourist he had ever seen. Most tourists dressed casually, but this man wore a suit that made the boy’s eyes sparkle. If only he could have a suit like that, the boy was sure Sols would be falling into his lap and he would be dancing with the wealthiest men and women in all of Lima. All of Peru, even. The boy shook his head. What was he saying, he could dance and party and sing with the whole world with a suit like that! Creeping off the bench and around one of the trees that had been planted very aesthetically, the boy leaned on the trunk and watched the man pull out his luggage. The man was checking his watch, which gleamed of gold. The boy was dazzled. It looked like real gold. On a watch? The boy gasped. What if it was real gold? Did they make watches of only gold?

                The man had a single suitcase, which he set on the curb, and he stood beside it, checking that beautiful watch. His face was stern, rough and chiseled. That was something the boy did not recognize about tourists either. The white ones, like this man, were usually soft and round and had smiles on their faces. This man was the opposite, save for his pale skin and his sunny hair. His foot tapped the pavement, and he shook his head. The boy paused. He couldn’t be waiting for a bell boy, could he? He only had one suitcase.

                Still, holding his breath, the boy strode out, walking around towards the man to make it look as though he came directly from the Hotel B. It was here he took a more professional appearance, even for a child. The Hotel B wouldn’t hire little tricksters or children who only wanted to play, after all. “Good day, sir! Would you like me to carry your bag to your room?” None of the bell boys were out, and the receptionist was currently the kind woman who gave him candy. Surely he could get some loot off this rich whitey.

                The man looked down at him, and the boy felt his cold stare shoot down his spine. This stranger did not look at all pleased to see him. “Fine,” the man said. He let the boy take his suitcase, then he gave him the little key. “Don’t drop that, it’s fragile.”

                That was good news.

                The boy took hold of the suitcase and began to pull it along carefully. He was always glad for the ones that had wheels, though it would prove to not matter much one he got to stairs. Bringing the bag into the Hotel B, he greeted the receptionist before making his way towards the man’s hotel room. Getting into the building, the boy paused in a hall alone, and began to look through the man’s bag. Inside, he found himself surprised. There were, firstly, bullets, which he did not expect to find in a tourist’s bag. He fiddled through, and he felt a small bag. Pulling it out, his eyes lit up at the sight of small jewels. They were fairly tiny, and each would not sell incredibly, but there were ten of them, so it would be a worth it find. Still, the man had said this bag was fragile, so there must have been a reason beyond the jewels…

                He felt a little zipper inside the back of the suitcase as he dug around, and he tugged it open. The boy reached in and felt cloth, which was wrapped around a small box material. Pulling the cloth out, the boy stood and opened it, and examined what was inside. It was a little porcelain box, beautiful in its craft, though a little lopsided. It was from China, little men depicted to be sitting around beautiful plants, with petals and birds floating in the air. The inside was empty. The boy felt it, eyeing it close. He flipped it, and saw that the marks of the maker were genuine, and he realized with a start that it was authentic. It was a real piece from the nineteenth century, and the man had one. The boy remembered reading that this item could sell for over 1000 dollars in the United States. He could barely comprehend what that would be in Sols. That was more than what his family saw in weeks at a time.

                The boy took the box and hid it in his backpack. Looking down at the cloth, the boy took the little sack of jewels and wrapped it in the cloth, then put the cloth back where he found it. Zipping everything back into place, he put the suitcase in the man’s room. It was a gorgeous room, with light walls and dark woods. The mirror gleamed in the corner, the sun casting pleasant leafy shadows into the room from the balcony. The boy stood there a moment, breathing in the sweet scent of the room. He wondered if he would ever live in a place like this. He hoped someday he would. Examining the room further, he wandered into the little room adjacent to the main entry bedroom. There was a small room with a table and multiple chairs. While most suites didn’t come with a room like this, the boy knew this room and two others had extra rooms in case a guest was here on business. It made sense to the boy now why the man didn’t look like an average white tourist – he simply wasn’t. He was, instead, a businessman of sorts.

                “ _I’m gonna be rich like him someday_ ,” the boy said. He stood tall, sticking his chest out proud. “ _Rich and able to let my mama live without lifting another finger for some rich prick_.”

                “ _Ah, but wouldn’t that make you the rich prick then_?”

                The boy turned, eyes wide. The man stood in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched the boy. He barred the way of escape for the Peruvian boy. Though he was young, the boy knew very well what trouble looked like. He took a step back, swallowing and watching the man carefully. He was a brave boy, but he knew that he could scream and attract attention if necessary. “ _I brought your bag to your room,_ ” he said. “ _May I get some money in return_?”

                The man looked over at his bag, and then back at the boy. “ _Let me make sure your bratty little hands didn’t get on anything important of mine_ ,” he answered. The boy froze. This man was all too knowing.

                The man was quick to get to his suitcase and back in front of the door before the boy could dart for it. Their eyes locked, the man calmly opened his suitcase, and began to slowly unpack. There was a small end table beside the door, and he set a few things of clothes and other odd items on it. Then he set a pistol and bullets. The boy couldn’t stop looking at it. He had rarely ever seen guns. Having one in the room, so real, so close, was both exciting and frightening. He turned back to see that the man was glaring at him now. “ _Where are they_?” the man hissed.

                “ _Where are what_?” the boy tried to play innocent, but they both saw through the act. The boy backed up, feeling his backpack bump the doorframe behind him. “ _I brought up your suitcase, just as you let me do. I did nothing to your belongings, sir_.”

                The yell in the boy’s throat could not escape when the man grabbed the boy’s arm. He had moved fast, his hand clamped down on the boy’s forearm, holding tight. The boy protested, but it was weak. He was afraid. The man looked furious, and there was a gun in the room. Sweat dripped down from the boy’s forehead. He felt tears in his eyes. He just wanted some money, only a little bit of coin. He pleaded with the man, who tore the backpack off him. He stood there, watching as the man dumped all his belongings onto the bed, and he shook. This had never happened to him before, not once, this was new and unfamiliar and scary. His playing cards scattered everywhere in a mess. The boy had just finished organizing them. Some snacks fell out, little bits of crackers and bread, and the crumbs were everywhere quickly.

                Then the little box fell out, landing softly on the blankets of the bed.

                The man stood still, staring at it. The boy stared, too, all color draining from his face.

                “… How did you know this was of any value?” The man, who was easily from Britian, spoke with a shaky voice. He was no longer concerned with speaking Spanish to the boy. They both knew already the boy could speak English, as he had done on the curb outside.

                “I…” The boy was trembling where he stood. “It had the artisanal insignia on the bottom, and it’s properly dated based on the material… the art style is similar to…” His voice squeaked and he closed his mouth, and he was unable to continue.

                The man looked at this boy in his room, and the boy was surprised to see the man was not angry. “You knew simply from looking at it and its basic form that it was genuine?” he asked. “No documents, no close examination?”

                The boy nodded. He then nodded to the man’s gleaming gold watch. “Your watch doesn’t have any real gold,” he said. “There are too many rust and black spots on the clasp.”

                Glancing down, the man raised his arm. The inside of his wrist, where the watch’s clasp was, was barely visible. The rest of the watch looked shiny and new and perfect, resembling that of authentic gold. But one little fleck of black, one that took the man a little while to even notice against his sleeve, had informed the boy immediately of the answer about the watch when the man had entered the room.

                Sighing, the man stood. “Come take your Sols before I change my mind,” he said. “And get your things. This will not happen again, understand?”

                “Yes, sir,” the boy ran to the bed and put his things in his backpack. He was surprised when the man gave him 180 Sols. Glancing up, the man gave him a dismissive look, and he made his way to the door to leave. He was not allowed to keep the box, but the man said nothing at the other jewelries and gems that had spilled out of the boy’s backpack when he searched it.

                As the boy’s foot left the room, the man called to him once more. He stopped, obediently turning and looking up at the man.

                “What is your name, boy?” he asked.

                “… My name is Navarro,” the boy answered.

                “Navarro?”

                The boy felt nervous. He wasn’t sure if it was proper for him to say his name. Not because this man was a stranger, but because of the rule. Only Spanish outside the house. Well, Spanish or English. And his name was neither…

                The man raised a brow, and the boy felt something of curiosity. Why did this man want to know him?

                “My name is Atoq Navarro, yes,” the boy said.

                The two stared each other down. The boy, Atoq, waited to see what would happen next. Then the man turned, one hand in his pocket, the other extended. “Well, Mr. Navarro, care to make a deal?”

                Atoq stared down at the man’s hand. It had that strange golden watch, and they were rough and giant and pale. He had never touched anyone of such pale skin on purpose before. He looked down at his own dark brown hand, then back up at the man’s. “What is the deal?” he asked.

                “As you saw, I have some valuables,” the man told him. “I’m meeting with some people here tonight. Tonight we plan on revealing what we have in play, what we wish to trade, and then in the coming days, those transactions will be made.” There was a devious gleam to his eye. “However, I would very much like someone with a good eye to watch from a hidden place, determine the value of what they present. And if they’re worth my time… that someone might find ways to acquire them?”

                Atoq watched the man’s gleaming eyes. There was something about this man that frightened him deeply, but at the same time, a wealthy man interested in his aid, that could only mean good. Right?

                He took the man’s hand, and they shook.

                “I don’t know your name,” Atoq said.

                The man smiled. “Gabriel Roman,” he told the young Peruvian boy. “Now, might you be here in six hours, just as it is growing dark? I would like to set up a place for you to hide so that the others might not be aware of your presence.”

                Atoq Navarro wandered the streets of Lima, his bag with Sols jingling in it, his feet carrying him as though he was drifting on a cloud, and the boy made his way back home to San Juan de Lurigancho.


	2. The Horse And The Ticket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're liking this so far! Reminder is all the items, all the locations, all that is heavily researched and real things! I'm very serious.
> 
> My tumblr is fieryhealermage.tumblr.com if you want to go check out some of my notes on this. I posted some references and things that I looked up. The next thing I have to do it really research England and get a general idea of the location and places that Roman lives in and where Atoq would go to school and various other things. So that's also gonna take a while. but I hope this is good!
> 
> There are 3 dominant languages that will be used in this story. Unfortunately, I only know English, but I have developed a way to make things work. In the dialogue, there will be three different forms, feel free to look back at this key:
> 
> English - plain text  
> Quechua - Bolded text  
> Spanish - Italicized text

“ **Little fox, where are you going**?” It was getting close to the evening, and the sun was beginning to get lower and lower, reaching down towards the horizon. The shadows were long through the windows of the old house. Atoq’s father was reading a newspaper in the light one of a dying lamp, the kids doing their chores around the house. Atoq’s mother was hanging out her customer’s clothes to dry, sitting them in front of one of the rickety old windows to catch what little rays of the sun they could, absorbing the faint heat and drying slowly in the little breeze.

                Atoq’s sandals were on his feet, and his backpack slung on his shoulder. He kept his eyes on the sky. He knew the sun was going to be right at the horizon by the time he arrived back at the Hotel B. Though he wasn’t sure if he could trust Mr. Roman, Atoq was curious and wanted to get to know the situation more. Knowing that the small conference room was going to be filled with strange men and antiquities made him even more curious. And a chance to show off his thieving skills sounded like an excellent opportunity. But he was also afraid. If Mr. Roman found him out so easily, how could he be sure these other men he might steal from wouldn’t notice him, as well? Still, Mr. Roman seemed to think he had a knack for this. He wanted to prove it.

                When his mother addressed him, Atoq jumped and gave her a soft smile. “ **I’m going on a walk** ,” he said. “ **I’ll be back soon, I promise. I just want to get some air**.” His mother looked worried, but wasn’t sure what to say to stop him. That was one problem with Atoq – it was difficult to get him to obey. He did all of his chores, his family duties, but anything else he chose to do when and how he wanted to. His parents had struggled to get him to listen on nearly everything that the boy seemed to think was optional. So this was one that his mother knew not to speak on. Though it was clear she was worried, there wasn’t much to be done. Atoq’s father was absorbed in the paper, not noticing or showing interest that his youngest son was leaving the house to go on a walk so late at night.

                The streets were just as busy in the evening hours as they were in the day, only this time the streets were illuminated by lamps towering over Atoq’s head, and the shops with glowing fluorescent and neon windows and signs. His shadow cast off to the side as he hopped along across the street, waving to some of the cars. Even though they had a red light and had to stop for him anyway, Atoq took his mother’s lessons to heart. Be glad that these drivers are not trying to run you down. Be thankful that they are looking at what is ahead of them.

                Atoq arrived at the Hotel B just as the sun was beginning to sink down past the buildings, the moon rising high above and stars beginning to peek out from behind their veils. He skipped up to the curb, got to the doors, and waited in the lobby. It was only a few minutes until Mr. Roman appeared, spotting him and gesturing to the boy. Atoq walked forward, giving the man a little nod and stare of respect. Mr. Roman didn’t seem to care, for he turned and walked. Atoq followed, and soon he was back in Mr. Roman’s room, and he helped the man shift a narrow dresser into the conference room. It fit in with some of the potted plant decorations nearly perfectly, and Atoq looked at it and how it faced, with perfection, towards the conference table.

                “Am I really to get in there?” he asked.

                “It will be a sufficient place for you to hide,” Mr. Roman answered. He pulled a blanket from the conference table that he must have left there earlier. “You’ll have this, as well. It won’t do much, but it will help you to stay more hidden if anyone is looking at the dresser.”

                Atoq took the blanket, and felt a little scared as Mr. Roman opened the doors to the little dresser. There were plenty of wooden slots to peek out of, and he was sure he had the perfect view from that little dresser. Still, he had never done this kind of thievery before. There was something about Mr. Roman that made Atoq know he couldn’t tell the man his worries or concerns, his fears meant nothing to the older man. So, resigned, he climbed into the small dresser, wrapping himself up in the cloth.

                Mr. Roman closed the door, and now the only light entering the dresser were from the lamps that shone in the room, glaring through like rays of the sun between the wooden slots. Atoq leaned against the little doors, pressing his eyes as close as he could to the open spaces between the wooden slots. He could see the table fine enough. Some bodies might obscure his view when they arrived, but he knew it wouldn’t be too bad.

                “Keep quiet in there until after the meeting is over,” Mr. Roman said. “Not a peep, you understand?”

                Atoq gave a little squeak of a “yes, sir”, and he heard Mr. Roman leave the room. The lights flicked off, and the door closed, and Atoq was submerged in darkness.

                Everything in the room was still, unmoving, and Atoq had to remind himself that he was allowed to breathe. He would hold in all the air in his lungs for some time, then gasp for breath. That wouldn’t be okay during the meeting. If he did something like that, he would definitely be heard and found out. Mr. Roman would get in trouble with the people he was meeting, and Atoq would get in trouble with Mr. Roman for not being quiet. So he practiced his breathing while Mr. Roman was in the other room, and Atoq became quite good at keeping his breath steady and level.

                Then the door to Mr. Roman’s room was heard opening. Atoq listened to the muffled voices and shuffling on the other side of the wall and door, and he closed his eyes and took one long, slow breath.

                The door to the conference room open and the room was bathed in light.

                Atoq watched people file into the room. There were two men and a woman. The woman was lovely and blonde and had a devious smile on her face. There was a man beside her with dark hair and a dark, thick mustache. Smoke billowed from his lips before Atoq saw the cigar in his hands. The last man sat off on his own, and then Mr. Roman came in and sat. There were more sounds by the door, and Atoq had to shift a bit to see the gun on a man’s belt before realizing they were likely hired hands. Whether they worked for Mr. Roman or one of the others, Atoq wasn’t sure. He didn’t know if he even wanted to know who they worked for.

                “Now, I take it we have everything in order?” Mr. Roman’s voice was commanding, and he leaned on the table while all the others sat politely. “Who would care to show their first piece?”

                The man by himself began to rummage into his bag first. Atoq strained to see what he was putting on the table. It looked like a small box. When the man opened it, it played a sad, beautiful little tune.

                “From the Palace collection itself,” the man said. Atoq’s eyes narrowed. Some royalty had a little music box like that? It didn’t seem very likely, but some rich people collected odd things. Mr. Roman and his fake watch, for example.

                Mr. Roman took it up in his hands, the little music box, and examined in. From Atoq’s little place, he saw the music box had all that was required for it to be authentic. There was a date and an artisan signature on the underside, and there were aged marks all over that didn’t look like someone had intentionally placed them. “From where is it?” Mr. Roman asked.

                “Lebanon,” the man said. “Owned by that Mulhim in 1749, made of some Lebanese cedar. A gift from the governor of Damascus for all the disputes he ended.”

                Atoq shook his head. That was a fake. The wood was the wrong shading and the wrong lining, even if there was a gloss or paint on it, there was something off about the wood. It looked less like cedar and more like dogwood to Atoq. While the music box may have carried some sort of value, he found it unlikely it was as valuable as the man claimed. He was not sure if Mr. Roman could see that, but he was going to make sure to tell the man about it as soon as he was able. The group discussed it more, but Atoq was content to fiddle around absentmindedly with the blanket he wore around him to keep him hidden within the dresser. Eventually, there was a shift in the conversation, and the boy had to peek out again to get a good look.

                “I think our trade will be promising,” the woman said. She nodded to the man to get their piece, and he did so, reaching down below the table into their bag. Atoq wondered if the man was doing something like Mr. Roman was doing by having the boy in the dresser. Was he like an obedient dog, or was he just a spy hiding in plain sight?

                A secure box was set out onto the table, and the woman took her time getting it open. Everyone watched, and Atoq quickly realized he had been holding his breath again. He covered his mouth with the cloth and took deep breaths, muffling the noise of it as he stared on. The woman opened the box, and the man gave her gloves. After she put them on, she picked out of the box a beautiful horse statue with delicate hands.

                Atoq’s eyes were alight. He knew exactly what it was before she could even utter the words. It was decades old, red and brown and a little crumbly in a few areas. A terra cotta horse figure. A real one. Like those statue men they had found. It was a tiny one people took out of those tombs to put into their collection. Likely from 700. Atoq’s mouth watered. He longed to touch it, to hold it. Imagine if he brought that home. Imagine if he sold that? He could see himself now, bathing in Sols. He would be able to get his mother and father something nice. Maybe a better house on a nicer street. Maybe they could have more recent meals for a while. Maybe they could bring their family worth up enough to get better jobs. He leaned heavily on the door, and flinched back as it began to give way. He managed to move back before the door could open much, and he was thankful nobody noticed. Not even Mr. Roman, who was examining the piece carefully. Atoq wanted to shout to him, to tell Mr. Roman to take it and run away with it. It was such an incredible piece! It blew all the others out of the water. The woman was smiling. She knew she had it in the bag. Mr. Roman would definitely want this piece.

                How unfortunate for her that it would be stolen later.

                Roman showed his little treasure, which outshone that music box but fell far short of the terra cotta pony. Atoq didn’t even pay attention. He stared with longing at the pony. It stood there, one leg up in the air, and its head was turned to look right at Atoq. He wondered if it would whinny if he pet it. Would it hop off its small terra cotta stand, shake its lovely hair, and run off without a trace? How could such a beauty be captive like this?

                Everyone fell to idle chatter now, Mr. Roman speaking with the woman about the terra cotta pony. Mr. Roman seemed to be interested in it, but not as much as Atoq was, hiding in that dresser. He watched with bated breath as everyone packed up their belongings. Payment arrangements would happen in the coming days. Mr. Roman ushered his guests out of his room before closing the door. Then he walked casually to the dresser and pulled open its doors. Atoq Navarro came tumbling out.

                “Well?” he said. “What did you think?”

                “The horse…!” Atoq gasped. He looked up with starry eyes. “ _It was so beautiful, unlike anything I’ve ever seen_!”

                Mr. Roman watched Atoq patiently. “And?” he asked.

                Atoq sat there, shaking his head. “ **It is so beautiful, can I have one? I want to have one, I could show it to mama and papa and we could get so much money and it would be** -“

                “Boy, I can’t understand a damn word you’re saying,” Mr. Roman growled. He gave Atoq a slap to the head, and the boy whimpered. “You’re telling me the horse then? What about it? And the music box?”

                “The music box isn’t cedar, It’s dogwood,” Atoq said. He rubbed his head. It stung and his ears were ringing somewhat. “It could be of value, but it could also just be a nice gift shop music box. But the horse…!” Atoq stood and was practically bouncing there. “It was a real terra cotta horse! Like the ones in the books! It had the right minerals, and it was right there! So delicate and pretty!”

                Mr. Roman rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Well, I suppose we can ignore the music box,” he muttered. “Surely the bloke has something else on him, though.”

                “That man stunk of desperation,” Atoq said. His voice was soft, he was nervous of being hit again. “He needed to find a way to get money fast without being in debt. He looks like a lot of the people I know who try to pawn things off. I’ll skip him and go right for the horse.”

                Mr. Roman looked surprised. “You’re so sure so fast?” he asked.

                “Yes,” Atoq answered. “I’ll get it for you tonight, if you’d like.”

                This made Mr. Roman pause. He went back into his room, eyebrows knit together in thought. Atoq followed, standing obediently and waiting for whatever the man was going to say. Mr. Roman sat on the bed, holding his chin and humming in thought. After some time, he shook his head. “I’ll have to leave right away, then,” he muttered. “Katherine is not a woman to be trifled with… Once she realizes it’s gone, I have to get home where I know I’m safe from her goons.”

                Atoq watched him fiddle about with his watch for some time. He was practically hopping from one foot to another. He didn’t care what Mr. Roman was concerned about. He just wanted that damn pony.

                “Get it tonight,” Mr. Roman finally said.

                It was like releasing a dog from his leash in the middle of a field.

                Atoq breezed out the door and was hot on the trail of that man and woman. He likely would have been unable to find them if the woman hadn’t gotten caught up in a phone call by the entrance to the Hotel B, sounding annoyed as she spoke on the phone some distance from the man, who held the case with the pony inside. Atoq hid around a corner, watching them. He had to get his way in there, find a way to keep them busy as he took hold of it.

                “Victor, come take the keys,” the woman said. “I’ll be done in a minute.”

                “You’d better be damn quick,” the man said. He took the keys from her, looking less than happy, and went to their car. It was a nice gray on, and Atoq’s eyes centered on it. The man was putting the box in the trunk – what a horrible place to put such a beautiful treasure- then he got into the car and waited patiently for her. Atoq watched a moment longer, then he had an idea spring into his mind.

                Dashing back to Mr. Roman’s room, he was breathing hard when he opened the door. “Call the lady!” he panted. Mr. Roman was reading, and jumped in surprise.

“What the hell are you going on about?” Mr. Roman snarled.

                “Call the woman!” Atoq said. “Ask her to come back here, just try to come up with a discussion!” Then he ran back out to watch. To his horror, the woman was getting into the car, and he felt afraid he would miss his chance. He hoped, he prayed, that Mr. Roman would listen to him.

                The engine to the car started.           

                Atoq felt he would faint.

                Just as the car began to roll out, it jerked to a stop, and was put back in park. The woman stepped out and he overheard them.               

                “Victor, Victor, I know just – just one minute, for god’s sake!” She closed the door and held her phone up. “What is it?” Silence. “…. Keep talking…” She gestured a little finger to the man waiting in the car for her to wait, and she went back into the Hotel B, still chattering on her phone.

                Atoq sighed with relief before slipping around one of the cars near him. He had to be careful about this. Crawling behind one car to the other, he was thankful the sun had fallen and only the skiy and dim lamps lit up the road. He crept behind the car, and crouched against the bumper. This wasn’t a skill he was good at, but it was one he hoped would finally come in handy, and he also prayed to all the Gods in all the religions that Mr. Roman would keep the woman distracted long enough. He opened his backpack and felt somewhat flushed with embarrassment as he pulled out the little pins and the old key his mother used to use. It didn’t fit nearly anything. Not until Atoq had learned how to use it, anyway.

                It looked like something out of a movie or a classic book with a thief breaking into something with his little lock picking set. Atoq wasn’t rich enough to have a whole lock picking set, but he had what he needed. And how could he be blessed more? Well, the man in the car turned on the radio. So Atoq didn’t need to try to be completely silent during this trial of his. The little key and pin squirming in the lock, Atoq listened for the little click after click after click. Sometimes he messed it up and heard everything slide out of place, and he cursed quietly, but he kept working on it. This was always a slow, difficult process, and he was so very thankful Mr. Roman was doing a good job at keeping the lady back in his room.

                Finally, there was a small popping noise, and the trunk began to open. Atoq quickly pressed his hand on it, glancing up. He didn’t see the man looking at him in the rear view mirror, which was good. He wasn’t on the driver’s side either, so he wouldn’t be getting a good look into that rear view any time soon. With a slow, steady, patient hand, Atoq let the trunk open just wide enough for him to reach in and grasp the case with the beautiful pony. He shook as he felt the handle, dragging it out of the trunk. He worried a moment how he would close the trunk, when he shrunk at the sight of the woman exiting the Hotel B.

                She was in a fury. Her eyes were like daggers, ready to stab into the next thing that angered her. Atoq gulped and pressed his body against the bumper of the car, eyes shutting tight. The trunk was almost closed, but not fully. If they drove, not only would they run him over, but the trunk would pop open and he would be beaten to death by this raging woman.

                He risked a peek when he realized she had not seen him yet, though. She moved over to the driver’s side door, and, eyes sparkling, he saw his chance. Shifting, he prepared to close the trunk, hands at the ready, and the woman opened the car door. She climbed into the car, and, driver’s door and trunk in unison, slammed it closed.

                The whole car shook from the force, but both the man and the woman up front seemed to think it was from her closing the door with a volcanic rage. Atoq darted away from the car, hiding out behind one of its neighbors, and he waited there while clutching the box to his chest as he heard the car pull back and drive away.

                The boy allowed himself a moment to breath, chest heaving. That was one of the closest scrapes he’d ever had in his life. While the man and woman showed no explicit signs of being threatening, Atoq easily knew that anybody who ran in the same crowd as Mr. Roman was not going to be a nice person, especially when angered. Listening to his heart beat, he waited until it slowed enough before standing up and trudging back into the Hotel B.

                Mr. Roman was waiting in anticipation. He had a very red cheek on his pale white face, and Atoq thought of the pitahaya, and he realized he was a little hungry. He presented the box with the pony to Mr. Roman, who grinned and snatched it from his hands. The boy watched as the man took out the horse carefully, checking it over to make sure it was secure. Then he looked on at Atoq. “Consider this being free of the debt of stealing from me,” Mr. Roman said. Atoq nodded, and turned to walk out.

                “Wait a moment, boy.”

                Atoq stopped, turning back and looking up at the man. Mr. Roman watched him, deep in thought. He looked down at the pony, then back up at Atoq. “You’ve got some skill with this, haven’t you?” He smiled when Atoq shrugged. “I had to hire a child for a job like this. My best men would have easily been suspected. Likely failed as well, the bastards have no idea what subtle means.” He crossed the space between himself and Atoq, crouching down so they were eye level. “What if you got the education and care you needed?”

                Atoq’s head tilted. “What do you mean?”

                Mr. Roman gestured to the pony. “If you can do this, imagine what you could do with further training and education,” he said. “You’re a young lad with astounding capabilities. Imagine what you could do in one year under my wing. Five years. Ten?”

                Atoq thought that sounded fascinating. But that meant leaving his family behind. Mr. Roman wouldn’t like the idea of caring for all of them in one place. “What about my parents? And my brothers? My sister?”

                “They will remain here.” Just as Atoq thought. “However, if you require them to be cared for, I’ll send money to them weekly as compensation for letting their son head on to bigger opportunities.”

                That was like a blow to the chest. His family would get the money they needed. He imagined very quickly meeting with them after a couple of years with Mr. Roman. They would be living in a nice, fancy house, right in one of those rich districts in Lima. Mama wouldn’t have to be scared of speaking Quechua anymore. In fact, she wouldn’t have to do a thing. People would come to her doorstep to clean her clothes, not the other way around! His brothers could go to school finally. His eldest wanted to be an architect. The little sister wanted to learn music. He could give his entire family that. All he had to do was go with Mr. Roman.

                And that was how it went. Mr. Roman packed his things, checked out on short notice, and drove Atoq to his home. Mr. Roman waited patiently outside the home as Atoq went in and explained to his mother and father what he decided to do. They were both surprised, and went out to speak with Mr. Roman as Atoq went up and packed his things. Just some clothes and a little tooth brush. He didn’t have much more. His siblings were all asleep, except for the eldest. He kissed them all, but his brother wouldn’t look at him. He stared down at Mr. Roman speaking to their parents, and his mouth was tight.

                As Atoq descended the stairs, he heard the words clearly.

                “ **Traitor**.”

                Atoq closed his eyes. He would not cry.

                His mother kissed him all over the face, whispering to him. Mr. Roman was detailing to his father the arrangement. His father, who at first looked angry, began to look pleased. He even ruffled Atoq’s hair. The boy was doing something to bring real change to the Navarro family. Even if his brother was angry, Atoq knew he could live with this in peace if his mother and father were proud. The little boy waved to his parents as Mr. Roman ushered him to the car. He watched them out the window until they were out of sight.

                If the terra cotta pony was a treasure, Atoq had received a gift of heaven when they had arrived at the airport. The soonest flight was just a few hours. Mr. Roman passed a slip down to Atoq, and he stared at it with wide, young, new eyes.

                A plane ticket to London, England.

                If the terra cotta pony was a prize, then this ticket was a blessing, and Mr. Gabriel Roman was a Saint.


	3. Assimilate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took forever to write but aaaaayyyye I'm proud of it
> 
> There are 3 dominant languages that will be used in this story. Unfortunately, I only know English, but I have developed a way to make things work. In the dialogue, there will be three different forms, feel free to look back at this key:
> 
> English - plain text  
> Quechua - Bolded text  
> Spanish - Italicized text

Every day that Atoq went outside, he was stunned. Going out the door to get Mr. Roman’s newspaper, to go get groceries as he was ordered, whenever he left the large home in Stratford, he stood on the steps, staring dumbly out onto the busy streets. The gray sky overheard, the bickering of couples as they walked, the running of small dogs, the cars driving funny. Every time he stepped out onto the street he was reminded of just how white London was. People often glanced at him and stared, and he was quick to get through whatever he was out there to do. Still, days were spent indoors. Most days, Atoq spent time in his room, and watched the world outside his window. With access to unending money, Atoq wasn’t sure what to ask from Mr. Roman. Often times he got books, and spent all his free time reading. There were tutors that Mr. Roman hired for Atoq to get a proper education, though they were each wary of him. Many evenings, Mr. Roman took him out to where his goons were. Either the warehouse, under the streets in the deep sewers, or out of London in the country, Atoq would find himself with a gun in his hand or standing toe to toe with one of Mr. Roman’s men, and he took each hit as he was taught to fight.

                The pattern went on for many years. Atoq would wake up, have his breakfast, then report to Mr. Roman’s office. There, his tutor awaited him, and they would do assignments and lessons in the little room beside it. Mr. Roman would inform him every time they were going to be training him. Once his lessons were done, Atoq would always be sure to inform Mr. Roman he was finished. Standing in Mr. Roman’s doorway, watching the man on his calls, or reading documents, signing papers, he would sometimes stand there for an hour, watching and waiting until Mr. Roman either barked orders at him to get ready for training, or dismissed him casually. When he was dismissed, Atoq would go to do the chores that Mr. Roman would have written out for him, and then he would go to his room and lay down and read.

                The pattern would go on for days. Then weeks. Months passed. Finally, as Atoq awoke to sun through the window, sitting up, arms stretching over his head, he realized that he was now sixteen. It was marked on his calendar, but not by his birth date. This was one of the few days that Atoq was able to hear anything from his family. Mr. Roman often withheld their letters from him so that he would treasure contact from them on the occasions they could receive information. His own letters had no way of getting around Mr. Roman, so he was resigned to turning them in to his guardian to be sent at his convenience. Mr. Roman collected many letters from his family, kept them in a box, and used that as a sort of birthday present for him. Atoq’ family had been doing much better since he had left and Mr. Roman began to send them money. They no longer lived in a tiny cramped home in the lower districts. They were becoming a very rich family in Lima, and Atoq’s heart swelled for them. He hoped someday to go home to them, to live with his mother and care for her in her old age. But Mr. Roman wasn’t interested in giving him up just yet.

                Getting up, Atoq dressed and went down the hall to Mr. Roman’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and he knocked on the frame and peeked in. Mr. Roman was there, standing and on the phone. He raised a hand at the sound of Atoq’s presence, and the routine began. Pushing the door open fully, Atoq stood in the doorway. He placed his feet apart just enough, as he was taught. His arms were down at his sides, just as they were supposed to be. But his fingers were squirming and playing with his shirt. That was always a problem, he was taught. He needed to learn to stay still.

                Mr. Roman ended his call and turned to Atoq. He looked the boy over. “Something has come to my attention,” he said. Atoq was surprised by this. Normally Mr. Roman never addressed him this way. If there was a problem, he preferred to have someone else take care of it, rather than himself. “It seems I have done you a disservice in socializing you properly.”

                “ _I’m sorry_?” Atoq said. He couldn’t help but fall into his old languages, even though it agitated Mr. Roman to no end. It felt familiar and safe to him in this strange land.

                “English, boy,” Mr. Roman spat. He leaned on his desk. “You haven’t been going to the co-op as we agreed upon.”

                Atoq felt his stomach turn at the mention of the co-op. It was a place for people home schooled, like himself, to get some form of group education and work done. He had skipped so many lessons and co-op meetings that his tutors had been punishing him for it. But he didn’t mind. It was terrifying to have all the eyes on him. “Mr. Roman, most of the people my age are white.”

                “And?”

                “They all stare at me, sir. And I don’t like it.”

                Mr. Roman rubbed his face, shaking his head. “Boy, do you even socialize? Your tutors are informing me you’re hardly even able to speak and you protest at an unusual rate when they ask you to leave the house.”

                “I don’t like it out there, sir,” Atoq answered. “I prefer to stay in my room or with the tutors in the conference room. As I have always done.”

                This didn’t seem to go over well with Mr. Roman, who stepped up to Atoq. The boy flinched back, unable to stop himself from taking that step back. Which was always a mistake with Mr. Roman, who had ordered him always to remain still. Atoq stared down at Mr. Roman’s hands, which he noticed were now clenched in reaction to his stepping back. His breath hitched. He still had bruises on his back, and was sore from the last time he had angered Mr. Roman only a few days ago. Eyes shutting tight, he waited, but then he heard Mr. Roman’s steps stop and silence filled the room.

                “Open your damn eyes, boy,” Mr. Roman commanded.

                Atoq peeked, seeing Mr. Roman had crossed his arms. There was a wave of relief down Atoq’s spine. He wasn’t going to have those frightening hands land blows on him. He was thankful.

                “You’re going to school,” Mr. Roman finally said.

                And it was from there everything shattered.

                Atow had never been to school. Not even as a child. His parents had tried to put his older brothers through school, but because of the financial stress, they all began to simply have children that would go out to earn money when they were old enough to leave the house. Atoq heard stories about school. He had even done his research when he was reading a fiction book Mr. Roman let him buy. School sounded like a terrible, frightening thing. Why would anyone want to go there?

                The day was a blur. His tutor wasn’t there, and Atoq was excused from Mr. Roman. He went and did some cleaning, as his guardian instructed, then he went to his room. Instead of reading or studying, Atoq set up the massive punching bag that Mr. Roman had gotten him for his training. It was optional for him to train in his large room, and normally Atoq opted out in order to read, but now he was unsure what to do with himself. Working on the punches he learned, the places to kick to knock down a foe, Atoq punched and hit the dummy until he was in a heavy sweat and exhausted. He simply collapsed on his bed in a mess, hugged a pillow to his chest, and stared at the dummy.

                School.

                Since he arrived in England with Mr. Roman, Atoq had never really had to leave home. He would always be with Mr. Roman or his tutors whenever he left. And it was only for a few short hours at most. He couldn’t remember being out of the house for more than five hours. This place had become his safe haven. While he was in Lima, his parents struggled to keep him at home. He had always longed to explore and experience life for himself. Now, it felt like he wanted only to hide at home. London had plenty of diversity, but it was unlike what he had seen. There were so many strange white people around, more than Atoq’s childish mind could have ever thought existing in one place. The tourist locations in Lima were already shocking enough for him. Now they were everywhere. And he, a young mestizo boy, among them, more familiar with Spanish than he was English, and trying to find his way. It was easier to stay in a place he was welcome then go explore the unknown. And usually it felt as though the unknown didn’t even want him.

                For a while, Atoq was furious with Mr. Roman for making him go to school. Some of the maids that Mr. Roman had hired would bring him various supplies he would need for school to replace his old ones, and it made him more and more angry with each item he got. How could Mr. Roman betray him like this?

                After he had lied down for some time, Atoq began to pace his room. He should run away. Go somewhere else. He stared out the window, watching the white folk walk up and down the busy streets outside. He should go back to Lima. Find work, support his mother and father, get away from all this.

                But Mr. Roman was the only one who was able to give them the life they wanted. Atoq clenched his shirt, just over his stomach, and sighed. If he went home, they would be ashamed of him for not helping the family as he had promised to. Just a few more years of this, and he would be able to go home.

                How many times Atoq had told himself that.

                The night before going to school, Atoq had hardly slept. He still considered the idea of running away as he stared up at the ceiling. Not necessarily abandoning his family and Mr. Roman. Maybe even running off to the men who worked for Mr. Roman, insisting he belonged there instead. It was far from true. Atoq was a good fighter and a fast learner, but the books and learning history were his place to be. Still, if he could live in the old warehouses or various little apartment headquarters, Atoq would be happier staying there than going to school, to a strange foreign battleground every single day.

                Then the sun began to turn the sky a light pink before it had risen, and Mr. Roman was at his door.

                “Get up, boy,” Mr. Roman said. “You have to catch the train.”

                Putting on every single article of clothing felt like putting on a prison uniform. It was, in fact, uniform, a dark suit with a little tie. Atoq loathed it, and felt uncomfortable with the tie around his neck. One of the maids had to help him to tie it, and taught him to in the process. His backpack felt like a death sentence. Mr. Roman didn’t help to make anything better. He was having a difficult morning as well, and when Atoq made the slightest protest to going to school, the back of his hand fell on Atoq’s cheek. The boy doubled back with wide eyes, and before he could apologize, it began. Sometimes Mr. Roman was angry and needed to get rid of that aggression. Usually it was on something in his office he had set up to break. Other times, it was on Atoq.

                The first day of school, Atoq trudged out to catch the train at seven in the morning with bruises all along his back, a purpling spot on his cheek, and a dull ache in his stomach and chest area. He got to the station, used the money that Mr. Roman provided him to get a ticket for the train, and then took the train across London towards his new school in Westminster. Walking the last few blocks after the his stop on the train, Atoq was greeted with a tall, old building of old dark stone. Atoq nervously played with his tie as he walked up the steps to the main building.

                The people there stared at him, too. Students, his age, as well as younger and older, turned and looked at the young Mestizo boy. He felt their eyes, but he also felt that they were less concerned about him. He saw a few people with darker skin like himself and it helped him to feel reassured that he would blend in a little better. Still, he saw all the pale faces and he felt his stomach knot. The reception people at the front office spoke to him in gentle tones, and sometimes he wondered if they thought he struggled with English. Still, they were kind enough to have someone direct him to where he could put his things, as well as where his classroom was. There were already students inside, standing around and chatting, and Atoq felt his chest grow tight, so he kept by his locker until a few minutes before his class started, and he snuck into the back.

                He was disappointed that everyone noticed him, blatantly staring. He became self-conscious, painfully aware he had the growing bruise on his face, as well as how he looked compared to the other boys. These white students were clean and well-kept. Atoq had barely cleaned up his hair that morning, and it looked windblown and stuck up every which way. He tried to hide as much as he could, but was eventually called up to introduce himself.

                And in a rush of fear, he had forgotten to speak English.

                “ **I’m Atoq Navarro** ,” he said, his voice and body both shaking at unique intervals, “ **I’m from Lima, Peru. I’m here with my guardian Mr. Ro** -“

                “Atuck, we can’t understand you,” the teacher said. She was a little woman with a stern expression. “Speak right, now.”

                Atoq was mortified. He hadn’t just slipped into Spanish, no. He slipped into the tongue he used only with his family. His mother’s words came into his mind and he felt sick. Don’t use Quechua outside the house. Not only was that humiliating, but the teacher hadn’t even bothered to get the annunciation of his name correct.

                “Sorry,” Atoq mumbled. “I’m Atoq Navarro, I’m from Lima, Peru, but I’m staying here with my guardian Mr. Roman.”

                When his basic introduction to the class was done, considering he had joined on a random day of the school year, he retreated back to his desk and refused to look up the rest of the day. Every chance he had to escape that claustrophobic room he took it, practically sprinting out of the building during breaks to take a breather. Leaning against the building walls, Atoq watched students walk around and talk, or sitting around, some already eating lunch. The courtyard connected multiple buildings by affiliation, and Atoq noticed they were different ages within each building. Some kids who were much younger than him stuck by their building, and there were older, more professed students across the courtyard.

                He decided to watch the older boys who were lounging around for a bit, keeping as much out of sight against one of the pillars of the building as he could. The boys all looked bored, talking and complaining and looking through their notebooks. Atoq flitted from one boy to the other, keeping his eyes on something interesting and new. The moment one got boring, he switched and fixated on another, fascinated and confused by white boys with time on their hands. He noticed that about white people, too. They wanted to be busy. Back at home in Lima, Atoq was relieved to be able to stand and do nothing instead of having all sorts of responsibilities on his head.

                Though Atoq was careful to remain as close to the pillar as he could, and not linger on any boy too long, his attempts seemed to fail. His gaze moved to a boy who was staring right at him. This caused Atoq to freeze, eyes growing wide, and he shrunk back somewhat against the pillar. Being caught staring was fairly embarrassing… but wasn’t this boy staring at him first? He couldn’t look over at the boys again, and then was painfully aware that the boy had stood up and began to walk over to him. It wasn’t like he could just run away! That would be suspicious.

                The boy approaching him had decent chocolate brown hair that was a little bit messy. Though he wasn’t smiling, Atoq could recognize the face of a smirker any day. This boy was obviously the type to get in trouble a lot – or if he wasn’t in trouble, he was in constant danger of getting caught. Atoq gave him a glance when he was almost right up to the pillar, then dared to look at him when the boy leaned on the pillar with him.

                They stood close, very little space between them, staring at the other. Atoq wasn’t sure what to say to the boy, but that was okay now. He was right, the boy was a smirker, because one appeared as he spoke.

                “You checking us out?” the boy asked. His voice was smooth and casual.

                Atoq was embarrassed. “I was just-“

                “It’s okay, it’s okay, you don’t have to apologize for anything.” The boy reached and patted Atoq’s shoulder. The touch was burning hot and spread through Atoq’s arm and chest and neck. “Name’s Flynn. Harry Flynn. Yours?”

                “I’m… I’m uh….” Atoq didn’t know why he was so nervous. Besides the fact that this was someone new, Atoq was still pretty decent at communication if it was one-on-one. But now he felt hot, his cheeks warm, and his head somewhat light. “I’m Atoq Navarro…”

                “Ooooh, fancy.” Harry grinned at him and put an arm around his shoulder. Atoq’s flesh, under his uniform, burned. “Well, why don’t you come sit over there with us?”

                “No!” Atoq was tense, frozen in place. He protested a bit louder than he intended, for Harry was looking at him with a confused expression. “Sorry, I just… It’s my first day and…”

                “Ah, I’ve got you,” Harry said. “First day jitters, am I right?”

                “Right…”

                Harry kept his arm tight around Atoq, who felt as though he might catch fire. His stomach was feeling queasy, but not in a way that Atoq had experienced. He glanced up at the older boy, who gave him a grin, and he tried his best to physically relax.

                “Well, Atoq, you’re not from around here, then?” Harry asked.

                “What gave you that idea?” Atoq replied. He managed to put some sarcasm in his voice. This made Harry beam.

                “Well, no accent, you don’t seem really comfortable around here,” Harry said. “You’re at least not from London, am I right?”

                Atoq paused a moment to consider if he should answer, but then nodded. “I’m from Peru.”

                Harry’s eyes were simply alight. He immediately let go of his grip on Atoq’s shoulders, but grabbed his hand and dragged him away from the pillar. At first, Atoq was afraid he was going to bring him to his friends, as that’s where it seemed they were going, but Harry walked right past them with Atoq in tow. All the boys stared, and Atoq felt a familiar kind of warmth in his body. Embarrassment and even shame.

                “Where are we going?” Atoq hissed.

                Harry led Atoq out of the courtyard and to the parking lot, and sat up on an old car. Atoq took a moment to assess if it could actually be Harry’s car. Harry noticed this, patting his pocket so that Atoq could hear the keys clink within.

                “Why did you drag me out here?” Atoq asked.

                “Because,” Harry answered. “You’re gonna tell me all about Peru, and now we’re in a place with like zero people. So you won’t be uncomfortable!”

                For a little while, Atoq stared, in disbelief that someone would be this interested in him or his story or his people. He had assumed that most white people were like Mr. Roman and the strangers just outside the front door – staring and judging and uninterested. Yet here was Harry Flynn, a boy of around eighteen, looking at him with sparkling, devious, amazed eyes. Atoq was embarrassed, but a part of him felt flattered. That strange, unknown dizziness and heat was back, and he shrugged. “There’s not much to talk about,” he said.

                “Oh, come on!” Harry leaned and gave a light punch to his arm. “There’s gotta be something! Come on, what’s different about here than there? I can tell you that I’m certain Peru is nothing like England. Tell me how.”

                It took a little bit of time for Atoq to think. Yes, there were clear and obvious differences, but he had to take the time to consider what he wanted to share, what he thought wouldn’t be self-deprecating, and what wasn’t painfully obvious.

                Atoq was both relieved and sad to hear people calling the students back in for classes and a bell ringing from the courtyard. He was relieved he didn’t have to take the time to talk about Peru to a stranger, but sad that he had to go. Something about Harry was drawing him in, but he was so caught off-guard and flustered by the boy he wasn’t sure what it was.

                Harry simply deflated, rolling off the hood of his car and sighing. “Okay, well…” He patted Atoq’s back. “You’ll have to tell me another time. Got it?”

                “Sure,” Atoq said. The two walked back, separating to go into opposite buildings. Atoq lingered at the door, watching Harry’s back as he left. His eyes remained locked on him until a teacher called for Atoq to come back inside. Hurrying, Atoq obeyed the order, only to stop once inside the building to watch Harry disappear across the courtyard, the doors closing to the outside world and shutting Atoq in from the life outside.

                Atoq was able to get through the rest of the day with new energy. He wasn’t sure if it was because he got some time in the sun, or because he had possibly made a new friend, but he felt like he could finish the day and get home to study without issue. He didn’t really speak up in his last classes more, but he was less determined to hide, and did answer when a teacher spoke to him instead of cowering behind a textbook. When the day was over, Atoq rushed out, dashing through the courtyard, to the parking lot. His steps became sad trudges when he saw that Harry’s car had gone. It was disappointing – he had things he picked out to tell Harry about Lima.

                The sun was lowering somewhat in the sky by the time Atoq had gotten home. Mr. Roman was busy in his office, and when Atoq stood in the doorway of his office to await orders, Mr. Roman told him he had the night to relax and do whatever he pleased. Both of them knew this meant Atoq would resign to his bedroom and read or study, which is exactly what he did. There was a history class that Atoq was excited for. He grabbed the textbook, determined to read an memorize all of it in the next few weeks for that class. Sitting at his desk, he began to read, his mind on nothing but those pages. He sat there, uninterrupted for hours, the sun getting lower and lower in the sky.

                Clink.

                Atoq sat up, looking around the room. It sounded like something had broken or cracked in the walls. He kept silent, and listened again.

                Clink.

                This time it came from the window, and he stood up slowly. Watching his window, he waited.

                A tiny rock hit his window, almost silent as it bounced off the glass.

                “ _What in the hell_ …?”

                Peering out the window, Atoq looked around in the growing darkness. At first, he didn’t see anything that could be doing such a thing. Then, looking down more into the little alley between his home and the one over, Harry Flynn was standing and waving at him.

                This was… new. Did Harry follow him home? If so, why did he wait so long to talk to him? It had been about four hours since he got home from school. Atoq opened the window and leaned out. “What the hell are you doing here?” He tried to be quiet enough, though he had to call down to the boy.

                Harry wasted no time. The boy was obviously a trouble-maker, seeing as he quickly found a way to climb up to the window sill, hanging off of it now and practically touching Atoq’s chest with his grip on the window’s framing. “I wanted you to tell me about Peru. You thought you’d get away from me that easy?”

                Atoq was in disbelief. “How did you find out where I lived?” he hissed. “I didn’t say anything about living with Mr. Roman to you or my house!”

                “School records,” Harry said, with a casual lopsided grin. “Had to leave school early though after I found out, I didn’t want to get caught, you know?”

                So the whole reason Atoq was disappointed at not seeing Harry’s car in the parking lot after school was because Harry broke into the school records to find out where he lived.

                Charming.

                “If you wanted to know you could have just asked!” Atoq said. He couldn’t see himself getting rid of Harry anytime soon, so he helped the older boy inside, closing the window. His room was nice, with shelves and shelves of books. Atoq even had a few chairs, which he completely expected Harry to take. Harry just sat on the edge of the bed and looked around.

                “Well, I’m here now,” Harry said. “That’s what matters. Now you have to tell me all about Peru. That’s the only way you’ll get me to leave.”

                Sitting down at his desk, Atoq faced Harry. He wasn’t sure how he got landed with a boy like this, one unafraid to just follow him home and climb up through his bedroom window, but… something about it was exciting. It wasn’t anything Atoq had expected. Most of the white people he met didn’t seem to be that interested in him beyond a “oh, how exotic” standpoint. Maybe Harry felt the same. But he was the only crazy white boy who would be willing to climb up to the second floor window just to learn more about Atoq and his home country. So Atoq explained to him Lima, and everything he knew about it. Harry was informed right away of how they needed to be quiet, as Mr. Roman was busy and didn’t like unwanted guests. Partway through explaining how Lima was structured, Harry raised a hand up a bit.

                “How did you get that bruise on your face?” he asked. “I noticed it earlier but I… I dunno it looks worse now.”

                Atoq had almost forgotten about the bruises littered on his body. They were all incredibly sore, but it was a pain he was learning to deal with. “It’s nothing,” he said.

                “Did that Mr. Roman guy do that?”

                Atoq fell quiet.

                Sighing, Harry patted the space next to him on the bed. Atoq was embarrassed, but went and sat beside him anyway. Harry looked the bruise over, and then a cut on Atoq’s nose and other cheek. “Atoq, look at you, you’re a right mess.”

                Atoq was surprised that Harry had said his first name, and did mostly correct on the pronunciation. Most people tried once, then fell back to calling him Navarro, even Mr. Roman.

                “It’s nothing…”

                Harry had brought his backpack with him, he said. Atoq watched as Harry climbed down from the window, returning with it. He put some salve and band-aids on Atoq’s cuts, and lotions on his bruise. After some prompting, Atoq removed his shirt and let Harry put lotions on his other bruises as well, the ones that adorned his back and chest like badges of shame.

                There was something in that moment, but Atoq wasn’t sure what it was. Something about it caused Harry to come back almost every night. If Harry couldn’t show up that night, Harry would always tell him at school. He would show up in the mornings on weekends, too. If Atoq had to go with Mr. Roman to training, Harry would wait back in his room for him. Harry was there. In the courtyard. At home. Always ready to help and talk to Atoq. When he had his breaks at school, Atoq wandered over to the pillar they had first met, a new meeting place for them, before they would wander over to Harry’s car.

                One day, as they walked to his car, Atoq’s hand found Harry’s. Atoq felt warm and happy, and Harry seemed to get closer and closer with him every minute.

                They didn’t say anything.


	4. Grown Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are 3 dominant languages that will be used in this story. Unfortunately, I only know English, but I have developed a way to make things work. In the dialogue, there will be three different forms, feel free to look back at this key:
> 
> English - plain text  
> Quechua - Bolded text  
> Spanish - Italicized text

“Do you really have to go so soon?”

            Harry’s chest rumbled against Atoq’s ear, rising and falling slow in a comforting rhythm. The boy’s heart was beating in time to an old tune, and Atoq felt its beat resounding in him. The evening light fell through the window, and he watched the little particles of dust fly in it, sparkling like bits of glitter thrown during a party. Harry Flynn’s room was a mess – clothes scattered all over, the bed was a mess. There were posters thrown all over the walls in a disarray; his bookshelf was an absolute disaster. The desk was cluttered, and his dresser was in need of repair. Whenever Atoq saw it, he felt an overwhelming desire to make Harry clean it. He didn’t have it in his mind to make Harry clean it all by himself – he would join in alongside with him. It wasn’t as though the older boy had much authority over himself – his grandmother was his primary caregiver, and she didn’t have many rules with him. She didn’t even care where he was getting his income from – at first he had official jobs, but Atoq knew that while Harry didn’t have a workplace to go to each day, he had a source of income. It was similar to that of Mr. Roman’s. Atoq knew it well.

            “If I don’t want Mr. Roman at me, I really should go…” Atoq liked the time he spent with Harry. They had been unable to see each other within the recent months. Harry had finished his education – finished or dropped out he wouldn’t say, so they both just said finished. Atoq was still hard at work in his studies, hoping to catch up with Harry as soon as he could. It was growing difficult for him to balance everything – he was at school or training with Mr. Roman with his goons. So lying in Harry’s bed, on his chest, legs intertwined and just resting, it was a safe place for Atoq. It was his world. But outside of the comforting place, Mr. Roman was in wait.

            “Screw that noise,” Harry sat up a bit, looking down at the boy on his chest. “Come live here with me, it’ll be fun.”

            Atoq winced. They’d talked about this before. “I already told you, Flynn, I can’t. Mr. Roman is my legal guardian, and he provides for my family back home…” He stood up from the bed and began to pull on his shoes. “I appreciate the thought, but I really can’t.”

            Harry watched him, sitting on the bed and leaning back on his palms. His eyes were filled with anger – not for Atoq, they both knew that – but for Gabriel Roman. “He can fuck off.”

            “Yeah, well I can’t exactly tell him that,” Atoq replied.

            “You could, just speak your one language. What is it… Quechua.”

            Atoq flushed. “You remember.”

            “Of course,” Harry said with a grin. “I like to remember everything you tell me.” He looked up in thought. “You’re Atoq Navarro, born and raised in Lima, Peru. Grew up in San Juan de Lurigancho. You liked to go swindle us silly white tourists of their money to help your family. Since you came here, this is the most education you’ve received since living in Lima.” He stood up and pulled Atoq into his chest, holding him there. “And you mean a lot to me, and I really really hate your stupid guardian Roman.”

            Atoq meant to push Harry off at first. Whenever Harry got around him, it made it difficult to leave. But his hands ended up clamping onto Harry’s arms, and he stood there, ensnared, and he looked up at Harry. “I really have to go.. I have my training.” He wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about his training. But he struggled to keep anything a secret from Harry. His friend was too perceptive.

            “You’ll be fine right?” Harry always asked. For years, Atoq had come from his training without a single bruise. He was now Roman’s best marksmen, best fighter, a weapon’s master, just as he was trained to be. Something Gabriel Roman dreamed of. That was who Atoq had become. And all before his eighteenth birthday.

            “I’ll be okay.” He gave a little pat to Harry’s arm. When Harry let go of him, he felt cold, and immediately wished he could stay longer. But the palm of Mr. Roman’s hand was still fierce. Waving the check or envelope meant for his parents in front of his face was the only thing keeping him from straying. One day he would find a way to get the money, to get his family away from poverty, from pain. And to free himself of Mr. Roman. He just needed the opportunity.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow after school, okay?” Harry walked him outside. Atoq hadn’t gotten his own car, and normally Harry had tried to give him rides home. Since Atoq began to carry a gun, albeit illegally, he preferred to take long walks through London. A Quechua boy on the streets after the sun fell below the line of the horizon was not someone people often considered a victim, after all. Years ago, Atoq had learned that he had no control over what other people thought of him as he walked the streets. So now, he chose to resign himself to the role they fit him for in their minds.

            The sun sank lower and lower, nearly gone as Atoq opened the door into Roman’s lovely house. He kicked off his shoes, setting them neat to the side of the entryway, and began his trek up to his room. His steps were light and quiet, socked feet on a carpeted stairway, and he padded down the hall with catlike speed. To his dismay, however, Mr. Roman was there, waiting, by his office. He had a stern look on his face, likely hearing the front door.

            Atoq slowed in front of him, and stood straight. His backpack hung from one of his shoulders, and he felt his guardian’s gaze staring through him like daggers. “Navarro.”

            “Mr. Roman.”

            Mr. Roman eyed the backpack. “Did it really take you that long to walk?” They both knew the truth.

            “I was only with him for a little while, Mr. Roman,” Atoq said. “Then I walked home.”

            “You’re letting yourself get attached, Navarro,” Mr. Roman said. He took a step forward, and it took everything in Atoq’s control to stop himself from stepping back away from his guardian. “You need to keep everyone at an arm’s reach if you’re going to fulfill what we have been planning for years now.”

            Atoq bit back his snarky remarks, staring blindly at Mr. Roman. Atoq felt it rushing over him. It was an eraser, one sliding down his face, his back, his arms. Wiping him clean of who he was, who Harry knew he was. It happened over and over. “I’ll put my things in my room, then if you would wish for me to do more training, I will gladly-“

            “Training is past.” Mr. Roman turned and stepped back into his office. “Tonight you’ll prove yourself.”

            Atoq stared into the office, dumbfounded. “What do you mean?”

            “You’ll be debriefed when we’re in a more private location.” Mr. Roman was putting some files on his desk into a case. “Get yourself ready. You don’t want to waste time, mine or anyone else’s.”

            Atoq’s spine was stiff the whole way to his room. Once the door to his bedroom closed, however, he allowed himself to slump, and it felt like he had been holding his breath for hours. Clutching the wall, he stared out the window at the evening sky. Was he going to be doing this for real now? Every night it was “Navarro, training” or “Practice this in the basement Navarro”, whenever Atoq was home it was studying, homework, or training for Mr. Roman’s gang. Atoq had proven himself to have good deduction skills – his navigation was astounding, and his understanding of old artifacts was second to none. He proved to be a gunslinger, working around a SPAS-12 shotgun with uncanny ability. Years ago when he had first touched it, it was able to knock him down with ease, the kickback force of it overwhelming. Getting a good hit was a struggle for the boy. Now, when he trained with guns, he always carried it on his back. It became something safe for him. Sometimes he considered shooting Mr. Roman with it. But that wouldn’t bode well in an armory of Mr. Roman’s trained mercenaries.

            Atoq slid to the floor and held his chest tight. His heart was pounding. He was going to prove himself. Actually prove himself. His hands felt sweaty.

            He wanted Harry.

            Pacing his room a moment, he was shaking his head. For a moment, he debated hopping out the window, climbing down to the street and sprinting to get to Harry. He wanted to call him, but he knew that wasn’t a possibility. Every call Atoq made were heavily monitored. He looked at the computer at his desk, and he considered a moment to email Harry. But he remembered that Harry could only see emails when he was “at work”. Sighing, Atoq leaned on the door for a little while, staring up at the ceiling. He was completely and utterly alone.

            The tug of the leash called Atoq out of his room. He trudged obediently to Mr. Roman’s room, waiting there at the doorway. When his guardian was ready, they left, heading out into Mr. Roman’s nice car. Atoq drove them to their destination. He knew the route by heart, heading down the river. There was an old warehouse on the river, just a few miles before it hit the bay, and that was where Mr. Roman’s men lied. There were official standing businesses there, but in the lower levels were storage spaces for gun ranges, for close combat, and planning jobs.

            When they arrived, Atoq parked the car among a few of the overnight staff members’ cars. There was a security guard who stood when they entered the building, but when Mr. Roman gave him a look, and the man backed up and gave a little nod. They were allowed inside with no further confrontation, and they were quick to descend the stairs. Atoq felt the little pistol on his hip, hiding just under his jacket, bounce against his leg and he felt his stomach twist.

            The boys were already waiting. Mr. Roman must have called them all long before Atoq had even gotten home. Their gear was on, and one of them had even set out some of Atoq’s favorites on the table against the wall. The man who did this was a friend of Atoq’s. They weren’t close, and this young man wasn’t one of Mr. Roman’s men. He was a wanderer, picking up work wherever he could. At the moment, that was money from Mr. Roman’s pocket. As Atoq went to grab his SPAS, his shoulder connected with the man’s, who was only just a year or two older than him.

            “Navarro.”

            “Cutter.”

            Atoq allowed himself to smile as he pulled the shotgun onto his back, getting on his gloves and making sure everything was in check. His little bag of ammo was there, too, and he pulled that over his shoulder. When he felt everything in place, he took his place beside Cutter, who leaned on him a bit. They watched the other men, much older than the both of them, who focused only on Mr. Roman. Both boys knew they were the odd ones out.

            “We’ll kick all their asses,” Cutter muttered.

            Atoq grinned and nudged Cutter, who flashed him a smile of his own.

            Mr. Roman snapped his fingers, and the room fell silent. All eyes were on him.

            “Now listen up, this is important.” Mr. Roman had some papers in his hand, and he looked none too happy. Atoq recognized that look on his face. It was one of vengeance and rage. “We’ve been having some trouble out here keeping some of our area secured. Our arms dealer has been found selling to some of the neighboring gangs, and they’ve gone for our least protected areas. I’ve already lost five of us to these bastards.”

            There was a unison of boos and angry curses.

            “Naturally, we’re going to hit them where it hurts.” Mr. Roman’s eyes gleamed. “Axton Amberly himself.”

            The men all whooped and hollered, and Mr. Roman began to go into the details. But Atoq was numb to it, he just watched Mr. Roman’s mouth move without even paying attention. He had felt Cutter grow tense beside him. Axton Amberly was one of Mr. Roman’s biggest rivals, a respected gang lord. His hand in England had been minimal, but was slowly growing, firm and dangerous. Cutter’s last jobs before being with Mr. Roman were with Axton Amberly, and Cutter was rather fond of the man.

            “Navarro, Cutter.”

            Atoq was dropped back into his body and he met gazes with Mr. Roman. “You two will take a few of the boys, and you’ll trek right through after the fight has broken out. They’ll carve a path for you to get right to Amberly’s suite. And then you’ll take his life.”

            Everything seemed to move much faster than Atoq was. Everyone was getting their gear finished, disbanding into groups. Cutter pulled Atoq along, a few boys following along. They got into separate vans, and Atoq found himself sitting passenger to Cutter, who drove them. They passed through the city, London a blur of bright glittering lights against a dark sky. Getting all the way across, some time later, Cutter pulled them off into a little suburban neighborhood and put them in park. The radio on the dashboard was buzzing with communication between different cars. Cutter listened to it carefully, but Atoq could see he looked bothered, maybe even more so than himself.

            “Do you want to do this?” Atoq asked.

            Cutter was quiet a moment. “It’s just a job, mate,” he said finally. “Gotta get it done. Gotta get paid. Gotta go home.” He looked over at Atoq, and gave him a smile. It was hollow.

            Atoq felt hollow for his own reasons. He sat back in his chair, watching the brush in front of them sway in the night breeze. Mr. Roman had sheltered him for some time. He had training in that warehouse, but this… this was new. He had never actually killed someone before. And Mr. Roman put him right behind the trigger.

            They waited for a few hours, listening to the radio. Things had fallen silent for some time, and Atoq felt himself drifting in and out of sleep, leaning on the door of the van with fluttering eyelids. When the call from the radio came on, Atoq hadn’t been ready. He was far from prepared.

            He was terrified as the radio came to life with their call.

            As soon as Atoq got outside, he heard it. They walked through some fields and forests, out of the suburban area and into an industrial district. There were little hotels, some crappy, but one nice towering one meant for the shareholders and rich owners of the construction equipment littering the area. There were factories and various other buildings. This wasn’t a residential area, that was certain. There were gunshots, and Atoq had Cutter pushing on his back once he saw the people.          

            It wasn’t overly chaotic, but it was more than Atoq had ever seen. He recognized Mr. Roman’s boys huddling behind walls, stacks of metal, cars, anything. They shot over at some men doing the same thing. From what Atoq could see, there was a pretty clear path to the lush hotel just a block down the street. But that would mean maneuvering through the shootout.

            “Well?” Cutter pushed him more. Now Atoq was out in the open, and it would be a moment before he was spotted. “You’re the one who’s good at this. Lead the way.”

            Atoq was frozen in place, staring. He trembled, hand shooting down to his pistol, but he struggled to get it out of the holster. Fumbling there, Atoq took his eyes off the shooters and looked down, trying to get out his pistol.

            “Navarro…. Navarro! Hey, you blood idiot, don’t just—”

            Atoq felt a body slam into his back as Cutter pushed him behind a nearby car. Bullets flew through the air, narrowly missing the two boys. Leaning on the car, Atoq stared up at the sky with wide eyes.

            “I don’t think I can do this,” he whispered.

            Cutter was getting out his gun, and he glanced over at Atoq. “I know this is gonna be rough for you, but we don’t have much a choice at this point.” Some of their followers were hunched beside them, awaiting order. Cutter nodded to them all, and the men nodded. They stepped out, one by one, joining the fray. “Come on, Navarro. Now’s your chance to kick ass.”

            Atoq closed his eyes, taking slow breaths. He had his pistol in his hand now, holding it tight to his chest, clutched between two shaking hands. He thought about the things that calmed him.

            He thought about laying down with Harry Flynn and talking with him.

            His cheeks flushed.

            He thought about kissing Harry Flynn, and his body seemed to melt, relaxing every bone and muscle. “Okay… okay…”

            Peeking out, Atoq was happy to see that their backup had distracted most of the enemies. Their fire was focused on Mr. Roman’s goons, who were hollering and shouting and challenging their rivals, commanding attention. Atoq watched as a man peeked out his head. He fiddled with the trigger. The man was just like a target, just like any target he had faced before. Arms extending, Atoq stared down the end of his pistol, training it with care on the man’s skull.

            Just like a target.

            The bullet hit clean, the man toppling over in a line of blood. Atoq let out a rough breath, watching it happen. His stomach twisted but he kept his grip tight on the gun. He stood, then with swift legs, he advanced to more cover. Just like the targets he practiced on.

            One down, another, a third.

            More and more and more, down by Atoq’s hand.

            “Target practice,” he whispered to himself.

            By the time he got to the entrance of the hotel, he wasn’t telling himself that.

            Cutter had his back, and Atoq had tore a rifle from a dead man’s hands. Whether it was one of Mr. Roman’s men or Amberly’s, he didn’t know. Atoq didn’t really care, either. What he knew is the gunshots were being reported, and police would likely be there soon if he didn’t take care of the job.

            The lobby of the hotel was empty, and Atoq looked around. He kept the rifle raised slightly, walking with a light step down the carpeted hall. He got to the front desk, and glancing around, he found nobody there. Likely the owners of the hotel were hiding. That was fine. “Cutter.” His voice was commanding. Distant. Unlike himself.

            Cutter hopped over the counter and began to look through some of the papers. “Amberly is on the fifth floor,” he said. Atoq gave a nod, and turned his attention to the staircase.

            “I think we should take this, instead of the elevator.”

            “You’re the boss, boss,” Cutter said, rounding around the counter. They met at the stairway, those words ringing in Atoq’s ears.

            Boss.

            _Boss._

            Everything was quiet going up the stairs. Occasionally Atoq heard a crying person, or an infant, and for a moment he felt a prick of his worry, his fear trickle back. How he wanted to tell those people they were safe. He wondered if one of those families was his own. What would he have done if he knew his mother and father and siblings were here? Further up the steps, Atoq saw the sign for the fifth floor and paused. Getting into a crouch, he crawled up the rest of the steps, peeking out down the hall. Indeed, the room that Amberly was in was guarded by four men, all holding guns tight. Ducking back, he whispered to Cutter, and the boy nodded. Cutter retreated down the steps, Atoq positioning himself carefully. The rifle in his hands, however, felt foreign, unnatural. Though he could use it, it was nothing that he preferred. Setting it carefully on the step, Atoq stood enough to pull the shotgun from his back, and he felt the weight of it in his hand. It felt good.

            Then he leaned back on the wall, closing his eyes. He heard his heartbeat in his ears, and now, instead of feeling terrified, he felt itchy to pull the trigger. Pulling back the clip, a solid click filled the nearly silent hall.

            He heard the men stop their muffled pacing on the carpet.

            Then he heard a shout from one after the little puffy sound from Cutter’s gun from the opposite stairwell filled the air.

            Rounding into the hall, Atoq didn’t take long to aim and fire. He didn’t need to do much aiming. The bullets sprayed, connecting with three of the men. They all fell, bodies sprayed with bullets, and they struggled to raise their guns. The shotgun gave a commanding roar in the hall, and Atoq walked forward. He pulled back, letting the empty shell fall from the slot. The next fell into place, and he aimed.

            All the men died at his gunshot, and Atoq watched the blood spilling, filling up the carpet. Cutter stood on the other side with his gun, and they nodded to each other. Atoq stepped over the bodies, and he couldn’t help but wince at the squishing sound of his boot on the bloody carpet. That brought him back to reality now.

            He tested the handle.

            Locked.

            Gesturing to Cutter, his friend approached the door and shot the lock, and Atoq’s boot kicked in the door, a bloody print left square in the center. The two young men stepped in, and Atoq got his shotgun ready. There were two men there in the entry way, prepared to fire, but before Atoq could retaliate, bullets whizzed by his cheek and embedded into the men. Two for each, shoulder, then head, shoulder, then head. They both crumpled, and behind them, an older man sat in a chair. He had a book in his hand, and his shoulders were slumped.

            Cutter pulled back, standing by the door. It was clear he wasn’t going to step any farther, his bright eyes dulled as he stared on at the man in the chair. Atoq, however, had all the adrenaline in the world for this. He steppd up, shotgun resting comfortably against him, pointing from his hip. “Amberly.”

            “You must be the boy Roman brags about so much.” The man lifted his face, and Atoq saw how weathered it looked. This was a man older than his years, wiser and more experienced. He didn’t seem afraid. In fact, he looked as though he had seen this moment coming for years. “Seems like you’re better than I expected. And older. I thought you were only a boy yet.”

            Atoq pressed the barrel of the shotgun against the man’s temple.

            “Seems like the boy I had heard so much about was really a man.”

***

            Harry sat at Atoq’s desk, playing around with some of Atoq’s books. He liked to sneak into the boy’s room and turn things around or mess with everything to surprise him when he got back, and this was no different. Not long after Atoq had left his home, Harry had put it in his mind that he would go late at night to visit the boy. But he wasn’t here, so Harry was taking the perfectly alphabetized books and arranging them by color. He snickered as he did, eager to get a reaction for something he knew Atoq was so particular about. He was about halfway finished when he heard the door open, and he paused to turn with a grin.

            “Hey there Ato…”

            Harry saw blood, and he stood up. Atoq stood there, covered in it. It looked like he had tried to wipe it off, but it still stained his clothes, flecks of it drying on his face. When Atoq saw Harry, he paled, and closed the door quickly. Leaning on it, their eyes locked for some time. Harry approached, careful, and held out his hands. “Atoq, what is all this?”

            That was the first time Harry had noticed the gun that Atoq had on his hip.

            Pulling Atoq in, Harry held the boy against his chest. “What the hell have you been doing?” he hissed.

            Atoq stood there, still, leaning into Harry’s arms. They stood there, against each other. Atoq looked up at him after a bit, his chin resting on Harry’s chest. Harry looked down at him. He didn’t expect Atoq’s response.

            A kiss.

            It was like a wave of relief. Harry forgot about the blood on Atoq then, their mouths locked. There had been a question between them for years. Atoq had dodged it. Harry avoided it, denied it even. Now, Atoq’s mouth met his, and Atoq’s hands grabbed onto him, nails digging into Harry’s forearms hard enough to draw blood. Harry hissed. It was like Atoq was holding onto him as if he was going to lose him any moment. There was hunger in Atoq’s force, and the two stumbled back. Harry tasted blood, and he wasn’t sure if Atoq had bit him, if it was Atoq’s own blood, or someone else’s. But he didn’t care.

            He was relieved as he fell back and Atoq crawled over him.

            He was so relieved.


End file.
